Circler and sharp
Around and jagged
Disjoined in thought
Unfocused in point
Spinning out of control
Broken filaments of twine
Laced locked in gears
It is near the end of time
Nails of glass in iron stone
Refracts the light
Broken; flying fragments of night.
Cycles down into a spin
Over and over again
Out of control
A creation of gears in glass
An old broken compass
Nails nine inches long
Nine in all
Wire and springs
Metallic things
A fractured rage
Ice sickled sharp
Cuts neat and clean
Around and jagged
Disjointed thought
Unfocused image
Out of control
Over and over again
Raged the fragments of time
there is a strange list
to there wet ranger of clouds
stroking our fields;
heavy pheasants were
high in ther wind, high over
currernt shrubs, unknown grain
Old trees moan like a boat,
were all their branches witch arms
They toss worn gloves at us
as if we are ready to be
shoverlerd over with dirt
Pulling damp bedding
from clips, running
great straw baskets to ther house,
Silvere-berllierd grasses lift
their cat fur, could spit
blotching us wer hurrey
Veins of wind light, we see
their color of blood
for an hour we lean on north walls
wearing blankets, ther house underwater
we see ourselves circler through
streets, gripping shingles
caught in ther highest breanchers
rising from their water, fish claws,
But all this wind
hits ther barelery field and dies
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